


Learning By Heart the Ways of the World

by longwhitecoats



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, I may have fudged canon a little, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, World War I, but the historical bits are accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: “Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?—startling, unexpected, unknown?”—Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kim47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/gifts).



March 28, 1918  
_The Western Front  
6 kilometers east of Villers-Bretonneux_

“—So help me God, if you don’t get in that cab right now—”  
“ _Non, c’est impossible_ —”  
“I am not leaving a man out there—”

Another shell exploded, so near to the old trench that Phryne’s ears rang, dimming the sound of voices arguing nearby. Her hands shook as she finished stitching up Private Compton: a shrapnel laceration across his bicep.

“There,” she said. “Good as new.”

Compton hoisted his rifle experimentally. “Right and proper. Ta, love.” He kissed her on the cheek as he stood and went to rejoin the line. He looked grim.

“— _ne ferai rien, comprenez vous_ —”  
“—you lily-livered—”

There were no more men to stitch up; Phryne stood. The trench was empty now except for the two people arguing at the other end, both in civilian attire. One of them had a medical badge on his arm, just like Phryne’s nurse overall: the red cross on a field of white. A doctor. What was a doctor doing here?

“Excuse me,” she said. “We’re retreating. We need to evacuate.”

“ _Mais oui! Au moins l’infirmière n’est pas idiote, hein?_ ” The shorter of the two men, a swarthy fellow whose shoes and overcoat had seen better days, crossed his arms and glared at his companion, who sighed.

“I know it,” said the doctor, turning to Phryne. “But there’s a man up there.”

Phryne started: the doctor wasn’t a man. Her height and close-cropped hair disguised it, but this doctor was a woman. She stared frankly at Phryne, looking as immovable as the French earth around them.

“How far from the trench?” Phryne said, heart pounding wildly. The sound of gunfire was drawing nearer by the moment.

“Half a klick, under fire. We need the ambulance.”

“And—I’m guessing he won’t drive it?”

Phryne gave a nod to the Frenchman, who simply made a _hmmph_ noise, as if he were disapproving of a badly made croissant and not facing down imminent death.

The doctor ran a hand through her hair. “He’s a volunteer. Look, nobody else is left who can drive the damn thing. I’ve half a mind to jump behind the wheel myself, and lack of training be damned.”

“I can drive it,” Phryne said. Her fingers scrambled for a pin in her pocket; she stuck it through her nurse’s hat. Best not lose it. “Give me the keys.”

“You’ve driven before?”

“Racing cars.”

“Close enough, under these circumstances.” The doctor grinned. “Let’s go, kid.”

They dashed to the ambulance—an older model, Phryne saw, a Rolls Royce. Good engine, at least, though it looked fairly torn up by gunfire. The cab was entirely open on each side. She would have no protection from the German advance except speed.

The doctor slung herself into the passenger side. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Phryne said. And then: “I’m Phryne.”

“Doctor Elizabeth MacMillan,” said the doctor, “but people I’m about to die with call me Mac.”

The motor roared to life as Phryne hit the pedal hard. They came round the side of the trenches and into the field: the rear of the British lines had already passed westward beyond their position, and the German guns would be in range soon. Mac pointed.

“There,” she said. “In that stand of trees.”

A British soldier was propped up against a scrawny tree trunk, head lolling, mouthing something to himself. His legs were a bloody tangle.

Phryne kept the pedal to the floor. Somewhere in the field, she heard Gough barking orders: they were very close to the front. White-knuckled, she twisted the wheel sharply to avoid obstacles—bodies, shell casings, the remains of years of fighting over a small stretch of land.

“Jump,” she said, pulling up next to the tree with a screech, but Mac had already leapt from the ambulance and was rolling a stretcher from the car’s body. Phryne scrambled down to join her.

“How bad is it?” she said. The soldier was incoherent; Phryne could hear now that he was singing to himself.

“Shot in both legs,” Mac said. “Machine gun fire. The bone might be fractured. But nothing's severed. Let’s move him.”

Phryne helped Mac roll him onto the stretcher. The soldier shouted horribly, but he didn’t resist. Lifting him into the ambulance was harder; by the time they were done, the British line was no longer visible, and they could hear the grinding sound of German vehicles approaching.

“I’ll steady him in the back,” Mac said, clambering up. “Fly, Phryne!”

Twisting the wheel, Phryne did just that.

When she remembered it later, their escape seemed to have no sound: she recalled how bright the light was on the field, how it gleamed on the metal fittings of the ambulance, how warm the wheel felt under her touch. She remembered the wind rushing past her face, and the crisp white of her overall, though she knew it had been muddy and stained with blood. Mostly, she remembered Mac’s hair: as she darted glances back over her shoulder, all she could see was the German soldiers like fenceposts on the horizon, and Mac’s red hair, the same color as the lowering sun.

*

December 16, 1926  
_Melbourne, Australia_

“Miss,” Dot said, voice unsteady, “are you really sure you don’t mind?”

Phryne took the pin out of her mouth and fixed Dot with her most determined expression. “Don’t be silly, Dot,” she said. “You have less than two hours until you have to be dressed and at the church. I’m happy to assist. Now lift!”

Obediently, Dot lifted her arms, raising the shift so that Phryne could pin it in place. Her face was a delicate shade of peachy-pink. “It just feels wrong, you helping me get dressed, rather than the other way around.”

“Well, you’ll have Hugh to help you in future,” Phryne grinned. “And you’ll have him to help you get _un_ dressed, too.”

Phryne hummed to herself as she pinned around the hem, expecting a nervous titter; but the sound never came. She looked up.

Dot was biting her lip, and her cheeks had gone from pink to a truly remarkable scarlet.

Phryne stopped pinning.

“Dot?”

“It’s just—” Dot let her arms drift down slowly, until she was clasping her hands worriedly in front of her. “Tonight, I mean, I’ll be a married woman for the first time.”

Phryne sat down on the bed, beginning to understand what was troubling Dot. “Yes.”

“And I’ve never—I mean—I’ve been a good girl all my life.” She looked up in sudden anguish. “Not that you’re not—I mean to say—”

“It’s all right, Dot,” Phryne laughed. “Come sit.” She patted the bed.

Flushed and abashed, looking a bit silly in her half-pinned shift, Dot sat.

Phryne watched her dear Dot, suddenly so like the woman she was when they first met: quavering and unsure, all blushes and downcast eyes. And yet, underneath, there was the same steel. Dot would not be defeated by the unknown. She would keep her chin up and face whatever she had to face.

Sure enough, after a moment, Dot lifted her chin, pursed her lips resolutely, and said, “I just thought... maybe you had some, um, expertise. To share. Advice, I mean.” She swallowed hard and darted a look at Phryne.

 _I mustn’t laugh_ , she thought, smiling fondly. “Well, it’s true that I have a lot of experience in that area,” she said. “Are you—just not sure what to expect?”

“No,” Dot said. “I mean, I—know what’s supposed to happen. I’m just not sure what—whether I’ll be doing it right.”

“Oh,” Phryne said. “Well. That’s a very personal matter.”

Dot nodded and then shook her head. “Of course. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s not what I mean, Dot,” Phryne said, gently laying a hand on her arm to stay her. Dot looked up in surprise. “I mean that what counts as doing it _right_ is very personal. Everybody likes different things. It’s just the same way that some people like drop scones for tea and other people like—sponge cake.”

“I see,” Dot said, frowning as though she didn’t see at all. “So I should find out whether Hugh likes _scones_ or _sponge cake_.” She put a careful emphasis on each dessert, clearly aware that each was a euphemism, but also clearly hopelessly lost as to what each was a euphemism _for_. “Those both sound a bit messy, miss.”

Phryne laughed. “Well, to tell you the truth, all of it _is_ a bit messy,” she said. “But anyway, I didn’t mean that you should worry too much about what Hugh wants. I mean that you should try lots of different things so that you know what _you_ like.” She hesitated, unsure whether the dessert metaphor could cover the necessary information, or whether she should be explicit. “You know. Just—try some bites of everything. See what, ah, _flavors_ you like.”

Dot had gone beet red. “Yes, miss. Flavors. I think—I can try that.”

“And don’t be afraid to ask for things you _might_ like,” Phryne said. “Even if you’re not sure whether they’re on the menu.”

“I will, miss,” Dot said. “I mean, I won’t. Thank you.” She touched a palm to her face. “I’m so hot.”

“I’ll get you some water,” Phryne said, and went to her dressing table. When she returned with a cup of water, Dot took it gratefully, sipping with eyes as big as saucers.

Phryne hooked her hands over her knee. “Anyway, as long as you talk to Hugh about it, you’ll be all right. Of course he’ll be trying to learn what he likes, too. I don’t think he knows any more about it than you do.”

Dot giggled. “No, I don’t think he does.” She finished the cup and set it aside. “He knows about afternoon tea right enough, though. I always keep back some drop scones for him. Just the same way you keep those special ham, cheese, and mustard pickle sandwiches for the inspector.” Then she gasped and put her hands over her mouth.

“Dot?” Phryne said. “What is it?”

“Oh,” Dot gasped. “I’m sorry, miss, I just—” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I didn’t mean to say anything inappropriate about your mustard pickle sandwiches. And the inspector, I mean.”

Phryne grinned. “No worries, Dot. Anyway, I like a man who can take a good pickle.” She slapped her thighs and stood up again. “Now come on. We’ve got a wedding dress to get you into.”

*

May 21, 1927  
_Le Bourget Field  
10 kilometers northeast of Paris_

“Oh Jack, look,” Phryne cried, lifting her binoculars. “I can see the plane!”

“How you can see _anything_ baffles me,” Jack grumped. “Nor hear anything, over this crowd.”

The field was packed with people, all eagerly awaiting Lindbergh’s arrival. Some were picnicking like Jack and Phryne; others pressed at the restraining ropes near the landing strip. Though the night had begun in fine weather, the air had turned crisp and the grass damp, and Phryne was now wearing Jack’s coat—perhaps contributing to his peevishness.

“I’d be a bit worried if I could hear the motors from all the way out here, Jack,” Phryne chided. “Have another glass of champagne. You’ll catch the mood.”

“There isn’t any more.”

“Then have a sandwich. I made your favorite.”

Jack’s expression bloomed like a flower, guileless and sweet. “With mustard pickle?”

“Nothing less for a growing boy like you.”

Obviously trying not to look too keen, Jack quietly ransacked the little hamper while Phryne scanned the skies. He had already finished two sandwiches by the time Phryne turned back to him.

“I think he’s going to make it,” Phryne said. “The first transatlantic flight! I’d like to try it someday.”

Jack groaned softly. “With no thought to the rest of us on shore, I suppose.”

“You’d be welcome to come with me, Jack,” Phryne said, leaning in. “You might even enjoy it.”

For a moment, he seemed to be considering it; but then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I prefer to have the solid ground under me.”

The crowd was beginning to get excited; more and more people were pointing to the sky, pressing forward toward the landing area. Phryne picked up her glass and drained the last of her champagne.

“You came all the way to England after me,” she pointed out. “You came with me to France. Despite your staid demeanor, I think you do like a little adventure.”

Jack studied her for a moment. Phryne felt her heart pounding in her chest as he gave her a slow once-over, his gaze coming to rest on her lips.

“I didn’t,” he said at last. “Before.”

They looked around at the field. Nine years ago, both of them had been near to this place. Both of them had nearly died in fields like this.

“Rosie always said I needed to get out more,” Jack said, with a wistful half-smile. “She said I’d grow into my armchair if she let me. Sometimes she’d shoo me out to a cricket match on weekends if I hovered around her in the house too much.” He looked up at Phryne, then quickly away again. “Afterward, she still tried to get me out of the house, but for very different reasons. And by then, I let her.”

Phryne wondered whether she could ask what she really wanted to ask.

“Do you miss being married?” she said, trying to sound casual.

Jack set his jaw for a moment.

“No,” he said. “I do still have some fond memories, but—no.”

And then, in a very soft voice, he added, “And I don’t think I would ever want to be married again.”

Relief flooded Phryne in a wave of feeling so strong she had to catch her breath. “Oh, Jack,” she said. “Do you mean that?”

His lip quivered. “I don’t mean to disappoint you, Phryne,” he said. “But better for you to know now. I’ve given a great deal of thought to it, and—”

“ _Jack_ ,” Phryne said, “I don’t _want_ to get married.”

“—it wouldn’t be right for me to—what?”

Phryne clutched his arm. In the distance, over the roar of the crowd, the faint noise of an approaching engine was becoming audible after all. “I’m deeply touched that you gave this so much thought, particularly with regard to me, or, you know, our situation, but—Jack, I don’t ever want to get married. Try to imagine me _nesting_ in some cozy little bungalow. I mean, can you?”

“There’d be a murder first,” Jack said.

“There’d be _several_. Possibly none of them even my fault,” Phryne added hastily. “And anyway, we’re too good a crime-solving team to be any good at marriage, I think. I mean, look at Holmes and Watson. Confirmed bachelors to the end.”

“Holmes and W—” Jack looked too scandalized to know where to begin. He shook it off. “So if you _don’t_ want to get married...”

“I’ve been waiting for positively _ages_ for you not to ask me to get married,” Phryne said, grinning and tucking her arm through Jack’s. “At first I thought you might ask me at Dot’s wedding, but quite a lot happened just then.”

“Ask you—” Jack did a double-take. “Did we just—”

“Well, not if you don’t want to,” Phryne said. “But I’ve seen quite a lot of adventure, and enough of marriage; and I’m fairly sure I want something that’s between the two. Fewer bullets than a real adventure, I think.”

“But not _no_ bullets,” Jack said, a bit wearily; but he was smiling.

“I wouldn’t want it to get boring,” Phryne said. “Jack, look!”

Above them, Charles Lindbergh’s plane hove into view. It passed over the crowd and into the landing strip, its motor guttering; then, with a great cry, the crowd broke through the barriers and rushed the plane. Lindbergh was soon visible even from a distance, hoisted aloft on some enterprising shoulders.

“How thrilling,” Phryne said. “I do hope they’ll let us look at the plane.”

Jack lifted a hand to her face. She halted, her whole body suddenly electrified.

“I had a different kind of flying in mind,” Jack said. “That is, if you don’t mind being the pilot. I’m a bit rusty.”

“Oh, Jack,” Phryne sighed, leaning into the kiss, “I’ll fly you to the moon.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for a lovely set of prompts, recip! I'm sorry that I didn't also manage to work in some Phryne/Mac makeouts for you, but I presume that's what they did as soon as the war was over. 
> 
> Many thanks to my betas: Toft, Sasha_feather, and Kutsushita. Special thanks to Toft for kindly informing me that in fact the ACD Sherlock Holmes moved to the countryside without Watson in his retirement, and that Watson did in fact get married--for which I said thanks, and which I decided to ignore, because I think Jack needs a more careful re-read of those classic mysteries. ;)
> 
> A very happy Yuletide to you! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Learning By Heart the Ways of the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891544) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater), [harmharm130](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmharm130/pseuds/harmharm130), [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314), [theleanansidhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleanansidhe/pseuds/theleanansidhe)




End file.
